


A Funeral For My Sanctuary

by unpopularmyth (Chrysander)



Series: A Discourse for Lilies [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Horror Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2020-10-19 19:17:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20662376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrysander/pseuds/unpopularmyth
Summary: A little boy born of devils blood tries to survive on his own after the death of his family and the burning of his family home. (Babu Vergil Propaganda)Tags will be added as needed.





	1. Chapter 1

Copper. Sulfur. Charcoal. Stone. Glass. Parchment. Grass. Trees.

Wildflower.

Blood.

So much blood.

Rain. It was raining. It was cold.

The little boy pushes himself up to his knees, the autumn leaves that had settled on him disturbed. The ground and leaves beneath him stained dark, the front of his shirt is ripped to shreds and covered in leaves and dirt. The boy pouted at the state he was in, his brows knitting together in confusion. Did his brother hit him too hard again and run away crying? Mother wouldn’t like that.

Well, there was no avoiding it. He’d have to go find his brother and apologize to mother for the mess of his clothes. He’ll check the bedroom first.

Hugging his arms around himself to stave off the cold, he picked up his training sword and trekked through the forest, it shouldn’t be too long of a walk to the house, maybe he could sneak into the kitchen and make a hot chocolate. He’d have to be careful not to track in any mud, that would give him away before he had a chance to talk to his baby brother. His teeth clattering together after a while of walking through the leaf ridden forest, his pace slows when the smell of burned wood is brought to him from the wind.

Did someone make a bonfire? Maybe mother planned on s’mores in the deck fireplace. Should he avoid going through the back, then? Maybe he should circle around to the front. He’ll check first. The boy’s pace slowed to a creep as he came to the edge of the trees, to find that the forest ended sooner than it should have. The line of trees was burned, but that wasn’t what brought the sting of tears to the corner of the boy’s eyes.

The house was blackened and scorched in many places. There was still smoke billowing through broken windows and breaks in the roof. The smell of blood carried on the wind, with it the smell of sulfur and charcoal. The boy stared at the police tape on the back door before removing it, undeterred by the bar lock that kept the door from opening enough for an adult to go through. He was small enough (skinnier than he remembered) to fit through, the biggest issue was getting his head through. Once that was accomplished though, he stumbled into the kitchen.

It was dark inside, and it felt so... empty.

Navigating through the kitchen and into the hall, he had to squeeze under a beam that had fallen down, stumbling into the foyer of the home. His gaze going up to the burned portrait of their family, father’s face was burned out. The paint of his own was marred with a scorch mark, but otherwise, the portrait was fine. He spotted his book on the floor, he was about to pick it up when a noise caught his attention.

The scent of blood was strong in the room, he turned around to find... nothing? It was darker on that side of the room, ominous darkness that made his goosebumps crop over his arms, heartbeat racing in his ears. The gleam of eyes in the darkness was his only warning before it sprung at him. What ‘it’ was, he didn’t know, he had dived under the chase. Scrambling through the other side, he darted down the empty hallway as ‘it’ gave chase.

Where was he going? Where was safe? Nowhere was safe.

He reached the end of the hall, past his their bedrooms, past his mother’s tea room. The hall was blocked off with rubble from the upper floor, the boy gave a cry of anguish until he caught sight of a hole in the rubble. He bolted to it, scrambling through as fast as he could, only for ‘it’ to catch hold of his leg. He screamed from fear, he screamed from pain as teeth chomped down through sinew, snapping his bone. Desperately he kept hold of the rubble, kicking at it wildly. He caught hold of something from the rubble as he was pulled from it, a broken piece of wood. With it he stabbed at the creature’s eyes, lodging it deep within its hound like face.

It yipped and let him go, immediately he scrambled away, slipping under the rubble. He tried to stand, to put his weight on the leg, but it could not hold his weight, and he staggered. Forcing himself to stay upright, he limped heavily into father’s study, closing the door behind him. Panting, (crying) he turned around, trying to find something to protect himself with. His gaze fell to the display case that held the Yamato.

“It’s yours,” he remembered his father saying.

Vergil recalled he had placed his hand on the case, looking up to his father when he could not lift the glass, “Why can’t I open it?”

“When she calls for you, that is when the case will open,” He’d told him, his hand gently carding through his hair, “That is when you’ll be ready.”

Vergil approached the case, staring up at the beautiful sword; was he ready? Wiping the tears from his face, he placed a shaking hand on the case; wishing, hoping, that it would open this time. The glass glowed with sigil as his scrape marred hand settled onto it. With a gasp he froze, eyes wide. Rushing to open it, he yanked the heavy sword from its stand, clutching it to his body. There was a brilliant warmth coming from it, or perhaps he was imagining it, as his hand gripped the hilt tightly.

Hearing the creature yowl in agony somewhere in the hallway, darkness glinted in his gaze as tears welled up. Pulling the blade free from its scabbard, courage renewed, he limped into the hall. As he reached the rubble, he knelt down carefully peeking through the hole. The hound was not there, so he carefully pulled himself through the hole, listening for the cries of the demon. Following them further into the house, past the foyer, past the kitchen, and into the cellar. He stood there on the top of the stairs for a moment longer than he’d meant to, the anger, and trepidation nearly swallowed by fear as he stared into the depths.

No. Never again. Never would he let fear falter him. Gathering his resolve, veiling his fear with anger, he ventured into the depths of the cellar. The whimpering led him into the back of the cellar, where the hellhound was cowering against some crates, pawing desperately at the wood stake he’d driven into its eye. No doubt its healing factor was the only reason why it was alive with a wound like that.

When it smelled him, they both froze in that moment, but when it did not leap at him when it did not attack, Vergil blinked. Realizing its demeanor was frightened, waiting. Was it waiting for its death? Lips pressed tight, he held the sword with both hands, he raised the sword as he approached it. Incredibly it lay down on its back, belly up. Much like a dog. Vergil hesitated, waiting as it whimpered on the ground. Shakily he lowered the sword, swallowing a lump in his throat, “If... if I take it out. You leave! And... And don’t come back!”

Having no idea if it understood him, Vergil cautiously knelt down, gently placing one hand on the side of the hound’s neck, its fur was strange, almost like there were scales underneath. Sure enough, he spotted some scaled crests as he brushed some of the fur away. The hound was deathly still, it's breathing slow and steady, it was a facade, he could feel its tension in its neck.

Carefully, Vergil took hold of the stake, and after some effort, pulled it from the beast’s skull. Taking the Yamato in hand once more, he backed up, pointing the sword awkwardly at the beast. Nearly shouting, “Okay. I did it. Now, get out of here!” It didn’t need to be told twice, once it was on its feet, it took off upstairs.

Vergil stood there for some time after it had left, still poised with the blade in front of him as if he were afraid it would come after him again. But it did not, and the house was now eerily quiet. Relaxing, he looked at the sword in his hand, brows pinched together. The tears that were building up finally released in a torrent, and he found himself falling to his knees as his leg decided it could no longer make the effort.

* * *

After the altercation with the hound, Vergil had to wait till his leg was healed more properly before getting to his feet again. He’d gone back to the kitchen, searching the cabinets for something to eat. The kitchen wasn’t too badly scorched, there was some food still intact in the pantry. He ate a whole box of cookies and found some of the soda that hadn’t burst in the heat of the fire. Once he was full on just cookies, he toured the house, assessing the damage. He found that the door in the tea room to his father’s study was clear of debris.

Once he was back in the study, he searched around the study for his brother’s sword. If he couldn’t find it, that meant that Dante would be alive, right? Opening Rebellion’s weapon cabinet was difficult, being that it was a lock, and it was likely enchanted. Getting frustrated he gave a yell and slammed his fists against it violently. “Open! Open damn it! I want to know... if my brother is alive.”

Tears fell to the floorboards, resting his head against the cabinet, dread sank into his heart. “... O-oh. You... If Dante had...” He swallowed, and continued the thought aloud, “If Dante was alive, you would be open. The same way Yamato’s case was able to open for me,” he whispered to the empty, char scented air.

So that was it then... He was alone.

* * *

Leaving the study, he ventured into his bedroom. It was badly charred, to the point where there was a chunk of wall that was missing. Everything ruined. So instead he opened up Dante’s room, freezing in the threshold when he saw how little damage there was in comparison. It even still smelled like his brother. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he strode across the expanse, to his brother’s bed. Picking up the ragged stuffed doll that Dante adored torturing, he stared down at it. It had once been a bear, maybe. Vergil couldn’t quite remember. He knew it used to be his, but after getting fed up with Dante taking it, repairing it and gifting it to Dante for his birthday. They’d been...? Four? Maybe five.

Pressing the bear to his chest, he took a deep breath, pausing when he thought he smelled something. Sniffing the bear’s cloth, he gasped when he realized it smelled like roses, dirt, and strawberries. It was too much. The waterworks were released, he fell to his knees, crying as he buried his face into the top of the quilt on the bed. Bawling big, ugly tears, sometimes even screaming into the material. Until he had no more to shed.

If he’d been ready before... before the attack, could he have saved his family? What if they didn’t make it? What if they were dead? Wouldn’t they have gone to look for him, if they had been alive? Would he be able to save them from the demons? Why did he let that demon go? He should have killed it! He should have made it wish for death!

He should have... But he didn’t.

* * *

When Vergil woke his knees hurt from being on them for so long, stretching as he stood, he looked down at his clothes, placing his hand over the tear in the front. He needed a bath. Did the water even work?

Taking some of his brother’s clothes, he entered the bathroom, which was still intact save for the inner wall being scorched enough that it left exposed pipes. Turning the faucet to the tub on, expecting for it not to be working. To his surprise, it was. He washed quickly, not knowing how long he’d have the luxury of water. Once he was in the fresh clothes, he realized he left Yamato in his brother’s room.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” He growled aloud to himself, smacking his hand into his forehead as he rushed to Dante’s room. “What if there was another demon?! Then what would I have done?!”

Once he’d retrieved the sword, he scanned his brother’s bedroom, the smell of roses and strawberries still strong. The smell... it would go away if he kept going in and out, right? Swallowing, he backed up, closing the door as he left the room, locking it. Once the door gave its telltale click of the tumblers falling into place, Vergil stepped back from the door.

“There,” He said softly, with finality, “Now... Now it will always be yours.” The corners of his eyes prickled again as he spoke next, “... Goodnight, Dante.” He whispered, so quiet it was barely a breath.

* * *

Vergil spent the rest of the day tidying up what he could here and there in the house. Eating the goods that were canned or in packaging that was still intact. He’d had to chase a rat out once, maybe twice before deciding to place all the precious boxed foods in the fridge. After emptying that of all rotten food by throwing it out the kitchen window, he’d made sure to lock the window after.

When the house was as clean as he could make it, he fished out linens from the hall and set up one of the fancy couches for him to sleep properly on. He’d stayed in the house for maybe a week with no change. The nights were chilly, but not so much that they were uncomfortable. It was the thunder that woke him, one shivering night, and it took him a moment to realize that the room was taking on water.

Sitting up he stared at the spots of the ceiling that was leaking, biting his lip. Rushing to the kitchen, he scrounged for some pots and bowls. Temporary solutions, he told himself, placing them underneath the problem areas. With that done he wondered about the state of the roof, and went to the staircase that led upstairs. The staircase groaned with complaint as he ascended, following the draft of air to the room that used to be his parent's bedroom. A good portion of the roof was gone, allowing the rain to fall freely inside. The damage to the rest of the room was irreparable, the ceiling even opened up to the attic.

A shock of thunder made him jump, the dark room flashing alight for just a moment before falling dark once more. In the flash he thought he saw something in the attic, freezing, he watched and waited for another lightning strike to illuminate the opening. Whatever it was that he saw... it was gone. Or maybe he’d imagined it.

Shivering from the cold of the rain (and nothing more, he told himself) he ventured back downstairs, shutting the door to his parent's room as he did so. Back in the tea room, he curled underneath the blanket, pulling it over his head. He shut his eyes tight, shivering underneath the blanket until he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

He dreamed that the imaginary thing in the attic had crept down to the tea room, watching him from afar, waiting...

He didn’t sleep easy that night.

* * *

The light from the morning sun smacked him in the face, earning a grumble as he turned and shoved his face into the blankets more. Postponing his waking by merely an hour, when the sun’s rays touched his face again. With a groan he climbed out of bed, grabbing Yamato from where she lay on the couch next to him. He held her to his chest as he slid from the bed, blinking past the grogginess as he ventured into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he picked up the box of cookies and pulled the bag out, only to find a single cookie left.

He munched on that as he took stock of the boxed goods, having already eaten all the crackers, and polished off the third box of cookies, there was plenty of pasta in boxes and things to make if he were able to cook. But the pre-made boxed goods were dwindling fast. He pulled out one of the boxes of noodles, staring at it. If only he had the stove-top to use, he could do something. His gaze swept over the kitchen slowly, freezing when it settled on the old stone oven.

Now, mother hadn’t used the oven as far as he could remember, but she said it had come with the house and was wood burning. Maybe it could work? Closing the fridge, he placed the box on the counter, pushing the stool over to the old oven. Opening the heavy cast iron door, he peered inside to find it was clean. No wood, but there was a small lever on the inside. He cranked it, hearing metal scrape before the lever became stuck. Trying again didn’t do anything, maybe there was something lodged into the chimney? With a sigh, he closed the iron door.

He left it at that for now. Instead, he opened the last can of peaches for breakfast.

* * *

In the cellar, he found a tarp, which he dragged upstairs to his parent's room. Moving the broken furniture out of the way, he lay the tarp in a way that the water would follow it out the opening in the wall. Using what furniture remained to hold the tarp in place.

With the tea room now protected from further water damage, he looked up to the attic, going still as if he heard something. Was he afraid? Brows furrowed at the thought; that settled it then. Taking Yamato with him, he ventured up to the attic door. With the opening in the roof, there was plenty of light. He entered the attic, slowly taking stock of the state of things up here.

He spotted a box of Dante’s old toys, burned, of course. When he reached the large gaping hole in the floor that led to his parent's room, he looked down through it. After locating approximately where he’d been standing last night, he raised his gaze to the spot that spooked him, to find a marionette draped haphazardly among the rubble.

He relaxed a little, looking around the attic, taking note that it wasn’t the only marionette that was in the attic. There were three more. Well, that solves that mystery. With a sigh, he looked out towards the expanse of the forest from the opening in the attic roof. It was a nice day out. Quiet and tranquil, like the rest of the world didn’t even notice the boy or his broken home. His grip on Yamato tightens. Did the world even notice the tragedy that happened here?

It wasn’t the first time his thoughts strayed to his mother. Surely she was dead, he knew that even if he hadn’t found her body that wasn’t surprising. The police tape was evidence that they would have taken her body. And if she was alive... well she would have come home to try to find him, wouldn’t she?

Did she even try to find you?

Vergil froze there for a moment, the thought struck him so hard it was like he’d been slapped. Tears prickling hard at the corners of his eyes, clouding his vision they were so intense. He closed his eyes, letting them fall down his face, biting down on the urge to whimper and sniffle. On the urge to just let the tears rage all out. It took so much effort to hold the tears back, he crouched, shoving his face into his knees. Digging his nails into his palms, biting his lip until it was sore.

A soft rattling made him freeze in place, holding his breath as his ears sharpened, listening again for that sound. Yet it did not come. Could he have imagined it? Slowly he turned, standing, his gaze taking note of all of the burned, discarded treasures in the attic. Nothing seemed out of place. It must have been a rodent or something disturbing some rubble?

Yeah, that had to have been it.

With a sigh, he held Yamato to his chest, grimacing at himself for being afraid of rodents. Shaking his head, he moved across the attic and down the stairs at a steady pace that he forced on himself because he was not going to flee from a damn rat. No sir. He wasn’t going to be afraid of imaginary things anymore. Not when there were very real demons out there.

With a shudder, he shut the attic door behind him.

A slow, creak of polished wood grinding together. Unheard, unseen, a painted face turned toward where the boy had gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days after his initial investigation into the attic, after the rains had stopped, he located the old ladder in the cellar. He knew there was a better ladder in the shed, but he was light enough that this one should do the trick. It took him an hour to finally find a good spot to place the ladder, having to move one of the marionettes out of the way just to set the ladder up to climb to the top of the roof of the home. His heart hammering in his ears as his shoes took some trouble securing him on the shingles, once he found his footing he carefully made his way to the broken chimney.

Investigating its condition, he found that there were bricks stuck in the flue. After crafting makeshift clamp with the remnants of two brooms and some cloth, he secured himself around the chimney by wrapping his legs around it and messed with shifting the bricks around for what felt like hours. Failure after failure to dislodge anything, on top of the fear of falling and the stress he was already under (that feeling of being watched still hadn’t left him), left him on the edge of an outburst. The outburst came after he finally managed to grab a lodged brick, lifting it, almost getting it out, only for it to fall again.

In his tantrum, he screamed out and jammed down the sticks several times until there was a kink of metal and a shift of brick. The bricks where the flue had been secured to cracking, one of the metal vents fell, and with it a few of the bricks.

Vergil sat there with his face pressed against the broken chimney, angry tears streaming down his cheeks. It took him another twenty minutes to calm down before he looked at what he did. Wincing to himself he sighs and took the sticks out, throwing them off the roof. “Will it even work now?” He questioned to himself, running his hands through his sweat-drenched hair.

With a sigh he decided to give it a try, perhaps, and shimmied away from the chimney, returning to the opening where the ladder was only to find it had fallen down. “Damn it,” He was about to just jump in, even though that would hurt his ankle when he realized one of the marionettes was laying next to the one he had moved. His heart pounded once again in his ears as he froze there. Had... had he moved that one and just didn’t remember? Or had he set the Marionette next to its twin without realizing it?  
  
Vergil stayed frozen there, staring at the marionettes as he questioned himself, biting his lip hard enough to bruise, his gaze hyper-focused on the dolls. Taking a piece of shingle, he threw it at the two marionettes, only for...

nothing.

After waiting for something, anything, to happen for twenty minutes he sighs, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Stupid,” He muttered to himself, yet even as he’d confirmed there was nothing amiss, he wasn’t too keen on going back inside the attic. So there he sat for maybe another hour, till it was on the cusp of sundown before he found a suitable place to scale down the house.  
  
When he was finally low enough to drop the rest of the way, he let himself go. Shock shot up his leg and the jolt of it left him sprawling on the lawn. He held onto the leg that had been broken days prior, cursing and whining into his knee, “Fuck!” Vergil knew that the leg would still be tender, but he thought he could take the pain, not sit there and cradle it like a child. He waited until the pain ebbed, the sun setting through the trees at the back of the house.

As it grew dark Vergil lifted his gaze, the paranoia sparking in him again as a twig broke in the treeline. The feeling of being watched had yet to fade, and he was sure he was seeing something in the dark tree line peering back at him. He froze there, poised, and though nothing happened he couldn’t shake the fear.

He couldn’t shake that _feeling_ of being hunted.

When he thought he heard the shivering of tree leaves (or was it moving in the underbrush?) he sprung up, bolting for the back door again. Immediately the sensation of being chased caused him to shout as he slipped through the crack in the door again, pulling it shut behind him a bit too forcefully. Clamping his hand over his mouth, he sat there with his hand over the knob. Ready to hold it shut of something tried to get in.  
  
Tears freely falling, soaking his cheeks as he sat there. He was sure - so sure - that something had been chasing him. Hadn’t it been at his heels? Hadn’t he felt its dry, dusty breath on his back? The minutes pass, and when nothing happened - again - he sunk to his knees and pressed his face into his hands. Shame shook through him along with the paranoia and the fear. In his mind's eye he could imagine it, standing over him. A scythe raised, piercing into his chest.

Vergil stilled eyes widening in shock as an idea sprung to the forefront of his mind. Almost in a daze, he searched for his soiled clothes, picking up the shirt to examine the tear, the stain... he ran the black shirt under the water in the sink, gasping when dirt and blood mixed with the water. He shut off the faucet, leaving the shirt there as he stepped back until his back hit the wall, he slid down then, his hand slipping under the shirt from Dante’s room until it grazed over his sternum.

There was a small indent in his skin, a scar he didn’t recognize, the spot was still tender.

* * *

That night, when sleep finally took him, his dreams were filled with memories of the smell of burning buildings, the screams carried in the air, the panic and fear of being chased until he had nowhere else to run. The shock of steel, the feel of being left in the cold cold, coated in a warm sticky substance, with the smell of blood on the air.

It was an uneasy rest.

* * *

The dream would come to haunt him regularly whenever he’d closed his eyes. He no longer grumbled when the sun hit his face, and instead went right to work with the chores. Clearing the house of debris where he could, preparing the brick oven, taking stock of his stores and writing up meals. Rationing everything that was prepackaged. Studying the cookbooks for what he was supposed to do, but unsure how to transfer the knowledge to the use of such an old oven.

The spot on his sternum ached constantly, the same with his leg. He surmised that was why his leg was taking so long to fully mend, he’d already healed from such a great wound, and whatever gave him the power to survive the attack that night was still struggling to heal him fully. Perhaps it was possible his healing was slowed by his lack of proper nutrition as well.

Vergil was at an impasse, should he keep stretching out the food with rationing, or should he make sure he had enough energy and nutrition to heal fast? He decided he was safe inside the house. He’d already cleared out the place of demons anyway.

He prepared the brick oven, though it took him a while to get the fire going when he did he kept it going, keeping an eye on it. When he was sure it wasn’t going to burn itself out, he closed the door and allowed the oven to get hot as he prepared a casserole using the dry ingredients.

Though he kept an eye on it, he miscalculated how hot the oven could get, burning the casserole, but not so badly he couldn’t eat it. When the pan cooled enough, he ate straight from the cookware as he poured over his father's books until nightfall.

He washed the dish and put it on the counter to be used tomorrow. Having eaten everything in the dish over the course of the day.  
  


* * *

The stormy night woke him again, and he stared up at the rain-soaked windows, watching the water cascade like waterfalls. Clutching the Yamato close to him whenever lightning struck. Not for the boom of thunder after, but for the shapes in the dark he swore he could see, the shadows cast by the shock of light.

Telling himself over and over that it was his imagination. It was in his head. He was fantasizing phantasms in the dark, it was only fear that kept telling him he was being watched. That he didn’t need to look at the doorway to see no one was there, even though the goose-flesh over his skin told him there was.  
  
He hated this. Hated the constant trembling of his skin. Hated the shocks of cold down his back that brought with it dread and paranoia.

Eventually, he clamped his hands over his ears and buried himself in the covers, berating the fear in himself. Scolding it over again like a child, and though getting angry at it was a little better, at least it was in itself a distraction enough, effort enough for sleep to eventually find him.

* * *

Routine. Everything was a routine. Until he realized he had no more wood to put into the oven to start it up. He could try to break some furniture or burn some books, but both of those options felt very wrong. So there he was, at the back door, sliding back the deadbolt. He slowly opened the door until the chain stopped it from opening anymore. Yet as he was about to go out, he froze, his heart once again pounding in his ears.

After a few heartbeats of breathing, he squeezed out of the doorway and into the yard. It was a foggy day, a dreary day. He could only see about ten feet in front of him. The shed was almost thrice that away from the house. His ears felt like it was straining to hear past the distant sounds of the forest, and the squelching of leaves and mud underfoot. When he reached the shed, his heart sank as he realized the door was locked. Biting his lip he peered around the shed, freezing when he thought he heard something. Scolding himself internally for wasting time, it was clear that he couldn’t trust his own judgment anymore.

Finding the ax on the back of the shed, still embedded into a stump where his dad used to cut wood. He looked at it skeptically for a moment before deciding to just get in through the window. He didn’t want to end up butchering the shed open just for firewood. Picking up a rock, he smashed open the window, crawling in as carefully as he could. He still managed to nick himself on the glass but it wasn’t too bad of a cut. When he was through he used the rock to smash that bit of glass out and then placed it down on the workbench.

Now inside, it was quite dark, with very little illumination on such a dreary day. Even so, it didn’t take him long to find the pile of wood and started tossing a few logs out at a time. Climbing out of the shed when he had a good bit on the ground, carrying them to the house and placing them on the small sheltered platform that the wood usually went. He remembered when his father used to keep it stocked, and when he passed, his mother would. He and Dante helped, of course, but never to the scale that he should have.

After transferring all the wood there, he decided that it might just be best for him to transfer all the wood in the shed, regardless of how fast he’d use it. Better to be prepared than have to do this again too soon. On his third trip back to the shed, he was piling his arms full of logs again when he hears something distinct. Something that doesn’t sound like the fluttering of birds, or the buzzing of bugs or the croaking of the occasional toad. It sounded like heavy sloshing of the muddy ground; footsteps, and they were not his.  
  
He turns swiftly to see a tall, lanky silhouette in the fog some twenty or so feet away from him. It looked like a man. With a small, quiet gasp he huddled to the side of the shed, clutching the wood in his hands. Staring at the figure’s outline as it stops moving. Maybe if he rounds the shed quickly he could retreat into the home before the figure could grab him. If that was what they were after, anyway. Maybe it was just a homeless man?  
  
No, he wouldn’t risk it.  
  
Yet, the fact that the figure hadn’t said a word, hadn’t done anything but stand there stiff as a board made Vergil wonder if he was just seeing things. Was the figure really there or was he imagining something-- The sloshing of mud continued, but the figure did not move, and the sound was off like it was coming from his right, around the other side of the shed. Vergil froze as he held his hands over his mouth, straining to listen past the loud sloshing of mud.  
  
There a soft creaking, not of cloth, but of something. He couldn’t imagine what would make such a sound when they walked. Like a joint, that wasn’t quite oiled, but it didn’t sound like metal. The rattling of what sounded like wood sticks knocking together, right behind him, made his blood run cold.  
  
Swiftly he turned to look behind him to see a silhouette coming slowly, surely toward him. He still could not make it out, but the way it moved was not human. Its stride was too long, its body moved like it barely had control of itself.  
  
Another rattling came from around the corner of the shed, and that is when Vergil screamed and dropped the wood in his hands. Running around the backside of the sheds. The intensity of the rattling spiked and he was sure that the lanky, gangly figures were chasing him as he felt fingers nearly catch hold of the shirt. He raced back to the house, through the slim fit in the doorway. Slamming the door shut behind him and slipping the deadbolt in place.

With that in place he raced into the tea room in search of Yamato. Grabbing it before hiding behind the lounge, holding it to him like a lifeline. Hands clamped over his mouth, he strained to listen for movement inside the house. He heard the sloshing of mud outside, the crunching of leaves, the rattling of wood. He imagined it was the dolls from the attic.

A logical, maybe hopeful side of his brain told him that it couldn’t be possible, told him he should check. Hell no.

The bang on the windows of the tea room made him jump from his hiding spot. There was another bang, the sound was dull, but nothing like if flesh smacked into the glass. He was tempted to look. But he stayed put. Waiting. Listening. Begging silently for them to lose interest, for them to move on.

Another bang and this one sounded like it had some oomph to it, but the glass didn’t break just yet. Vergil clenched his eyes shut as he listened intently. The banging stopped, their efforts discontinued, and the wonder of that was what finally spurred Vergil to peek out of the side of the couch.  
  
To find there was nothing at the windows.  
  
He backed up into the corner again, cradling Yamato tighter as he strained to listen, to figure out if they’d left or been still roaming around the house outside. At his limit, however, all he could hear was the sharp pounding of his own heart and the quick pace of his own breathing.

Even so, he stayed like that for some time. Expecting any minute for the intruders to try again to get inside.


End file.
